


Learning to be an Uncle

by imbeccacile



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Uncle Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 21:29:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbeccacile/pseuds/imbeccacile
Summary: John and Sherlock have to go out on a case - and they call Mycroft to come babysit. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he figures it out along the way.





	Learning to be an Uncle

**Author's Note:**

> mycroft is such a lovable asshole, so give him a baby!  
> kudos/comments are always appreciated!

“Mycroft.  _ Please.  _ It’s important. _ ” _

 

Sherlock’s voice was soft; the most gentle Mycroft had heard him in years. Instead of yelling at him, he said ‘please’.

 

The older cleared his throat, moving the phone from one hand to the other. “I’ve told you, brother mine. Children do not like me.”

 

“And I’m asking,  _ brother dear,  _ how do you know that?”

 

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a quiet sigh.

 

Sherlock asked him to look after John’s child - their child, now. Surely he had to be the last resort, because he knew his brother couldn’t willingly give up a one-year-old girl to his older brother’s care.

 

“Fine. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.” He heard Sherlock sigh in relief, and he hung up before his little brother could say anything else.

 

He never thought Sherlock could surprise him. He stood corrected.

 

Pushing open the door to 221B, he stepped inside, leaning a bit on his umbrella. The flat was a mess - and normally, that wasn’t surprising - but he’d never seen it so unorganized.

 

In between the two armchairs, the television played some honky, colorful cartoon. On the floor in front of it, there were tons of different little toys. And Sherlock was lying on his stomach, holding out a rattle to the child, who waved her chubby little fist in excitement.

 

“Thank you for coming.” John’s voice pulled him away from the sight, and he looked down at the doctor.

 

John looked tired. He usually, did, of course, but he had dark smudges underneath bloodshot eyes. The life of a parent, it seemed, had hit John terribly hard, and yet, he still smiled. “I would say it’s a pleasure, but…” Mycroft trailed off, glancing over as he watched Sherlock pick up the baby, making a face at her. He would never imagine his brother being so gentle.

 

John chuckled. “I know it’s a lot, Mycroft,” he said, making Mycroft’s gaze pull back to the shorter man, “but Sherlock and I agreed that Rosie deserves to know her uncle. It’s last minute, of course, but it seems like most cases are.” He gave an apologetic smile.

 

Mycroft felt something strange in his chest, and he didn’t know why or what it meant. He simply suppressed it and nodded, not really knowing what to respond with. “You won’t be gone long, I presume?”

 

“No, of course not.” Sherlock came closer, bouncing the baby on his hip. She giggled and chewed on one of her fingers. “It seems rather simple; just a supposed murder-suicide between a pair of sisters.” 

 

The older eyed the child warily, and John seemed to notice, because he put a hand on his arm. “You’ll be okay. I’ve got faith in you. Besides, she’s already eaten, and she’ll most likely fall asleep soon. Her crib’s upstairs.” He guided him to sit on the sofa, and Sherlock plopped the child right onto his lap.

 

He stared at her. She stared back, sucking on her hand.

 

“What if she cries?”

 

“You hold her, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. “I know somewhere, deep down, you’ve got feelings, dear brother. Please figure out how to use them.”

 

John laughed, taking Sherlock’s hand. “Evening!” And with that, they were gone, and the door was shut.

 

Mycroft’s gaze slowly shifted back to Rosie, who was staring at him intently, like she was interested in this new person. He supposed staring was preferable to crying and screaming.

 

Swallowing, he frowned and leaned forward a bit, placing his hands around her middle to stand up. He held her out in front of him for a moment, not really knowing what to do. 

 

“Do you...want toys?” he asked stiffly, figuring this wouldn’t be very comfortable for her, and tried putting her on his hip like he saw Sherlock do. Yes, that seemed to work just fine.

 

This was going to be a long night.

 

She made no noise at all, continued staring at him with those wide, innocent eyes. So he cleared his throat and carefully set her down on the floor where she’d been before, sitting against one of the armchairs, on the floor.

 

He felt silly. Mycroft Holmes, the government official, sitting on a carpet floor with a baby at 8 pm on a Tuesday night. 

 

He figured it would be fine. She could just do her own thing, and then she’d go to sleep. Easy. She did seem like a fully-functional child after all; surely she had nothing to be upset about.

 

For a little while, it was alright. Most of her attention stayed on the television while she absent-mindedly flung a rattle about in her chubby fist, while the other stayed stuffed in her mouth. Mycroft watched her, but kept distance between them. He certainly didn’t want to hurt the child on accident.

 

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Rosie began screaming. The sound was so deafening, the man was at a complete loss for what seemed like a few minutes. Finally, he realized he had to do  _ something _ , and leaned forward, grabbing the first toy he could find - a stuffed bear, and tried presenting it to her.

 

“Here, child,” he said, trying to make his voice as smooth as possible. She hit the bear out of his hand and screamed louder.

 

He tried again and again with her other toys, but nothing worked.

 

Leaning back against the chair again, he sighed. “Please, stop crying,” he pleaded, then, slowly, remembered what Sherlock had said. Hold her. Right. Carefully, he leaned forward, taking her small body in both hands, and brought her closer, sitting her on his lap.

 

It didn’t seem to work.

 

He was at a loss. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he tried to remember what his mother did with Sherlock. He was seven when his brother was a baby, so surely he could remember something.

 

Shushing him, bouncing him and walking around. He supposed that would do.

 

Very carefully, holding her awkwardly to his chest, he got to his feet, supporting her bum with one hand and her back with the other. When he was sure his hold on her was stable enough, he walked stiffly in a circle, then remembered he should be bouncing. So he tried ‘bouncing’ around the room, feeling ridiculous. How did this even help?

 

But a few moments into it, her crying slowly subsided. She hiccuped still, breathing heavily and no doubt getting snot all over his shoulder, but she wasn’t crying. Amazing, really, the simple things a human child needed.

 

Now that she wasn’t screaming in his ear, he felt a bit calmer. It wasn’t as terrible as he’d imagined, really, though his arms were definitely getting tired. Carefully, he sat in John’s armchair. 

 

Luckily, Rosie didn’t scream, but she whimpered in his ear. So he inadvertently began humming a tune he hadn’t heard in years, and she seemed to immediately relax.

 

It reminded him of home. The good memories - not the scary ones.

 

Mycroft figured he’d be here for a while, so he leaned back in the armchair, adjusting Rosie’s position slightly so that she lay her head on his chest, but he still held her close, not wanting to ruin the peace. Surely hearing a heartbeat would be calming to an ordinary baby. He might be clueless, but he could deduce some things like his brother from time to time.

 

He kept humming, despite the fact that if anyone were to walk in on them now, he’d be so embarrassed he wouldn’t know what to say.

 

Luckily the flat was empty.

 

He watched, amazed, as her eyes closed, and they stayed that way. It really worked; he couldn’t believe it. Perhaps Sherlock would be proud of him - he was sure John would be, at the very least.

 

Still, he was afraid to move. If he moved, if he got up to put her to bed, surely she would wake. And he really did not want her to start screaming again.

 

So he stayed put, actually quite enjoying the warmth that the child provided.

 

When Sherlock and John returned an hour later, they were both stunned speechless by the sight in front of them. Rosie, asleep on a snoring Mycroft’s chest.

 

“I can’t believe it,” John whispered, a huge grin on his face.

 

Sherlock smirked. “I always knew he had a soft spot,” he replied. “Perhaps he was always meant to be an uncle.”

 

Yes. Perhaps he was. 

 

Mycroft, later, could agree to that statement, though it was all still so new to him. What mattered was it seemed like the little Watson-Holmes child liked him.

  
Out of people who  _ could _ like him, he’d call that a victory.


End file.
